Uniwsity  of  California. 

A  1 1         ^ 

1  !v'  FROM    TIIK    I1ISKAKY    OK 

DR.    FRANCIS     LIEBKR. 
Professor  of  History  and  Law  in  Columbia  College,  Now  York. 


THK   GIFT  01' 

MICHAEL    REESE, 

Of  San  Francisco. 
1873. 


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Library. 


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TJTTEKANCES: 


BY 


A.  J.  H.  DUGAlfNE, 


ANTE   LUCEM. 


NEW  YORK: 

PUBLISHED  BY  ROBERT  M.  DE  WITT, 

13  FRANKFORT  STREET. 
M  DCCC  LXV. 


TO 


SBilliara  Curtis  |H0jits, 


THESE      POEMS 


FREEDOM 


RESPECTFULLY     DEDICATE!) 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

HARVEST  AND  VINTAGE 1 

ON  TO  FREEDOM 9 

THE  ROMAN  TWINS 11 

MAKE  WAY  FOB  LIBERTY 13 

CZAR  AND  SERF 1G 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  Ox 18 

TUB  LOYAL  DEMOCRAT 21 

THE  MILLS  OF  GOD 23 

MlLO   AND   THE   OAK 25 

THE  STATCE  OF  LINCOLN '28 

SOUTHLAND 31 

THE  HOUSE  OF  BONDAGE  . .  34 


anfc  Mintage. 


I  DREAMED  of  a  marvellous  HARVEST  — 

I  dreamed  of  a  Threshing-Floor, 
Where  MEN,  like  grain,  by  Angels  twain 

Were  garnered  in  measureless  store  ; 
All  bound  in  sheaves,  like  corn  in  the  leaves, 
And  flailed,  from  husk  to  core. 

And  the  Angels  sang,  with  voices  sweet  — 
"  Out  of  the  Grain  the  Dross  we  beat, 
Out  of  the  Chaff  we  winnow  the  Wheat  : 
True  Souls  are  the  Wheat  of  a  Nation  !" 

I  dreamed  of  a  wonderful  VINTAGE  — 

I  dreamed  of  a  Wine-Press  red, 
Where  MEN,  like  grapes,  by  Angel-shapes 

Were  trodden  with  wrathful  tread; 
As  grapes  ye  work,  to  must  and  to  murk, 
And  crush  them,  shred  by  shred. 

And  the  Angels  sang,  with  tongues  divine  — 
"  Out  of  the  Murk  the  Must  we  fine, 
Out  of  the  Grapes  we  mellow  the  Wine  : 
Brave  Hearts  are  the  Wine  of  a  Nation  !"" 


UTTERANCES. 

I  would  that  my  Dream  were  Heal- 
That  Angels  this  Land  might  beat! 
And  scourge  our  sod  with  the  flails  of  God, 

And  scatter  the  chaff  from  the  wheat ; 
And  mightily  tread,  in  our  Wine-Press  red, 
All  dross  beneath  their  feet ! 

That  our  souls  might  sing,  in  joyous  strain — 
"  Out  of  the  Chaff  the  Wheat  we  gain, 
Out.  of  the  Murk  the  Wine  we  drain : 

The  Wheat  and  the  Wine  of  our  Nation !" 

I  pray  that  the  Angel  of  FREEDOM 

May  strive  with  the  Angel  of  WAR  : 
Till  MEN,  like  grain,  these  Winnowers  twain 

Shall  flail,  from  husk  to  core ; 
Till  MEN,  like  Wine,  in  libation  divine, 
To  Thee,  O  GOD  !    they  pour ! 

And  forevermore  sing,  with  tongues  divine — 
"  God  of  the  True  !    this  WHEAT  is  Thine 
God  of  the  Free !    receive  this  WINE  : 

The  SOUL  and  the  HEART  of  our  Nation !" 

MY  BIRTHDAY.  Auffuat,  1861. 


(On  to    freedom. 


"  There  has  been  the  cry — '  On  to  Richmond !"   And  still  another  cry—'  On  to  Koglaml !' 
Better  than  either  is  the  cry — 'On  to  Freedom !' ''—CHARLES  SCMNF.R. 


ON  to  FREEDOM  !     On  to  FREEDOM  ! 

'Tis  the  everlasting  Cry 
Of  the  floods  that  strive  with  ocean— 

Of  the  storms  that  smite  the  sky ; 
Of  the  atoms  in  the  whirlwind, 

Of  the  seed  beneath  the  ground — 
Of  each  living  thing  in  Nature 

That  is  bound ! 
'Twas  the  Cry  that  led  from  Egypt, 

Through  the  desert  wilds  of  Edom : 
Out  of  Darkness — out  of  Bondage — 

On  to  Freedom !     On  to  Freedom  ! 

O!    thou  stonyhearted  PHARAOH! 

Vainly  warrest  thou  with  GOD  ! 
Moveless,  at  thy  palace  portals, 

MOSES  waits,  with  lifted  rod  ! 
O  !    thou  poor  barbarian,  XERXES  ! 

Vainly  o'er  the  Pontic  main 
Flingest  thou,  to  curb  its  utterance, 

Scourge  or  chain ! 
For  the  cry  that  led  from  Egypt, 

Over  desert  wilds  of  Edom, 
Speaks  alike  through  Greek  and  Hebrew : 

On  to  Freedom!     On  to  Freedom! 


10  UTTERANCES. 

In  the  Roman  streets,  with  GRACCHUS, 

Hark  !    I  hear  that  cry  outs  well ; 
In  the  German  woods,  with  HERRMANN, 

And  on  Switzer  hills,  with  TELL  ! 
Up  from  SPARTACUS,  the  Bondman, 

When  his  tyrants'  yoke  lie  clave, 
And  from  stalwart  WAT  the  TYLER — 

Saxon  slave ! 
Still  the  old,  old  cry  of  Egypt, 

Struggling  up  from  wilds  of  Edom — 
Sounding  still  through  all  the  Ages : 

On  to  Freedom  !     On  to  Freedom ! 

On  to  Freedom  !     On  to  Freedom  ! 

Gospel-cry  of  laboring  Time : 
Uttering  still,  through  Seers  and   Sages, 

Words  of  Hope  and  Faith  sublime ! 
From  our  SIDNEYS,  and  our  HAMPDENS, 

And  our  WASHINGTONS,  they  come  : 
And  we  cannot — and  we  dare  not 

Make  them  dumb  ! 
Out  of  all  the  shames  of  Egypt — 

Out  of  all  the  snares  of  Edom  ; 
Out  of  Darkness — out  of  Bondage — 

On  to  FREEDOM  !     On  to  FREEDOM  ! 

NEW  YOIIK.  November,  1861. 


Hunts. 


'TWAS  told  by  Roman  soothsayers 
(What  time  they  read  the  stars), 
That  ROMULUS  and  REMUS 

Sprang  from  the  loins  of  Mars ; 
That  Romulus  and  Remus 

Were  twin-born  on  the  earth, 
And  in  the  lap  of  a  she-wolf 
Were  suckled  from  their  birth. 

By  Heaven  !   I  think  this  legend — 

This  ancient  Roman  myth — 
For  mine  own  time,  and  mine  own  clime, 
Is  full  of  pregnant  pith. 

Romulus  stood  with  Remus, 

And  ploughed  the  Lati.an  loam, 
And  traced,  by  yellow  Tiber, 

The  nascent  walls  of  Rome: 
Then  laughed  the  dark  twin,  Remus, 

And  scoffed  his  brother's  toil, 
And  over  the  bounds  of  Romulus 
He  leapt  upon  his  soil. 

By  Heaven !   I  think  that  Remus 

And  Romulus,  at  bay, 
Of  SLAVERY'S  strife  with  LIBERTY'S  life 
Were  antetypes  that  day. 


12  UTTERANCE! 

The  sucklings  of  the  she-wolf 

Stood  face  to  face  in  wrath, 
And  .Romulus  swept  Remus 

Like  stubble  from  his  path : 
Then  crested  he  with  temples 

The  Seven  Hills  of  his  home, 
And  builded  round,  by  Tiber, 
The  eternal  walls  of  ROME  ! 

By  Heaven  !   I  think  this  legend 

Hath  store  of  pregnant  pith  : 
For  mine  own  time,  and  mine  own  clime, 
'Tis  more  than  Roman  myth ! 

Like  Romulus  and  Remus. 
Out  of  the  loins  of  Mars, 
Our  SLAVERY  and  our  LIBERTY 
Were  born  from  cruel  wars : 
To  both  an  ALBIC  she- wolf 

Her  bloody  suck  did  give ; 
.And  one  must  slay  the  other, 
Ere  one  in  peace  can  live ! 

By  Heaven !    I  think  this  legend 

Straight  to  our  hearts  comes  home: 
"When  SLAVERY  dies,  shall  grandly  rise 
FREEDOM'S  Eternal  ROME  ! 

January,  1SG2. 


Slake  821  as  *** 


"  ARNO  [,D  STP.UTIIAN  DE  WINKELBIED,  a  knight  of  Underwalden,  burst  suddenly  from  the 
ranks.  'I  will  open  a  passage  fur  Liberty,1  ho  cried.  He  threw  himself  on  the  enemy's 
pikes,  grasped  as  many  of  then}  as  he  could  reach,  and  bore  them  to  the  ground  as  he  fell 
His  comrades  rushed  over  his  body."— PLANT  A,  "Hist,  of  the  Helvetic  Cantons," 


UNDER  the  oaks  of  Sempach 

The  Switzers  knelt  in  prayer, 
And  sware  upon  their  sword-hilts 

The  oath  their  fathers  sware. 
Under  the  oaks  of  Sempach 

Their  fathers'  swords  they  bared, 
And  dared  the  powers  of  Slavery 

Their  valiant  fathers  dared. 

Duke  Leopold's  knights  in  armor, 

Duke  Leopold's  spearmen  tall, 
With  shields  o'erlapped,  and  lance-points, 

Stood  up,  like  castle  wall; 
And  when  the  Swissmen  smote  them, 

Their  angry  armor  rang, 
Like  anvils  under  hammers — 

"With  hoarse  and  sullen  clang! 


And  when  the  Switzers  charged  them, 
So  well  they  bore  the  shock, 

The  mountain-men  fell  backward, 
Like  billows  from  a  rock — 


14  UTTERANCES. 

Fell  back,  with  dead  and  dying, 
Fell  back,  with  doubts  and  fears, 

That  none  might  pass  the  shield-wall, 
Or  break  the  hedge  of  spears ! 

Behold !    the  fateful  moment — 

The  hour  of  Freedom's  stress! 
Then  stood  forth  ARNOLD  WINKELRIED, 

From  all  the  dubious  press. 
He  looked  upon  the  Switzers, 

And  saw  their  fear  and  doubt — 
"!'LL  make  a  path  for  LIBERTY!" 

Bold  WINKELRIED  cried  out. 

He  turned  upon  the  Austrians, 

And  flung  his  arms  apart: 
He  clasped  a  score  of  lance-points, 

And  joined  them  at  his  heart. 
As  bride  embraces  bridegroom, 

He  hugged  the  lovely  death : 
"I  make  a  path  for  LIBERTY!" 

He  said,  with  dying  breath. 

And  after  him  the  Switzers 

No  more  knew  doubts  or  fears : 

They  passed  the  broken  shield-wall — 
They  passed  the  hedge  of  spears : 


MAKE    WAY    FOE    LIBERTY.  15 

And  where  he  fell  they  mounted, 

O'er  shattered  helm  and  shield, 
And  drave  the  Austrian  spoilers 

From  Sempach's  gory  field ! 

Five  hundred  years  have  mouldered 

O'er  WINKELRIED  the  Swiss : 
No  slave  hath  breathed  in  Switzerland 

From  that  brave  day  to  this. 
And  as  the  Lord  yet  liveth, 

I  cannot  help  but  pray 
Some  WINKELKIED  might  lift  his  voice 

In  mine  own  land  to-day  ! 

Some  stern  and  loyal  Leader, 

To  shame  our  doubts  and  fears, 
And  cleave  for  us  the  shield-wall, 

And  break  the  hedge  of  spears : 
Some  hero-man,  o'ermastering 

A  slavish  time  like  this — 
To  make  a  path  for  LIBERTY — 

Like  WINKELRIED  the  Swiss ! 

December,  1861. 


THERE  came  out  word  from  Muscovy, 

To  all  the  Christian  lands — 
That  Kaiser  ALEXANDER 

Had  loosed  his  vassals'  bands ; 
That  the  Czar  of  all  the  Kussias, 
By  brave  and  wise  commands, 
Had  riven  the  yoke  from  bondmen's  necks, 
The  shackles  from  their  hands. 

Then  all  the  wide  world  shouted — 

Wherever  Christians  are — 
"'Tis  a  noble  deed  this  man  hath  done! 
All  hail!    the  Eussian  Czar!" 

O'er  all  the  land  of  Muscovy 

Was  Slavery's  leprous  scurf — 
Till  Kaiser  ALEXANDER  said : 

"Emancipate  the  Serf!" 
Till  the  Czar  of  all  the  Kussias 

To  shapes  of  breathing  turf 
Gave  thrice  ten  million  freemen's  souls — 
A  soul  for  every  serf. 

Then  all  the  wide  world  shouted — 

Wherever  Christians  are — 
"  'Tis  a  blessed  deed  this  man  hath  done ! 
God  keep  the  Russian  Czar!" 


CZAR    AND    SERF.  17 

I  think  if  he  of  Muscovy 

Were  Ruler  here,  this  day, 
And  underneath  Rebellion's  foot 

His  bleeding  country  lay; 
"With  twice  three  hundred  thousand  men 

Behind  him,  fierce  for  fray, 
He  would  not  brook  that  SLAVERY 
Should  hold  him  long  at  bay ; 

"With  all  the  wide  world  gazing, 

Wherever  Christians  are — 
I  am  sure  a  DEED  would  soon  be  done 
By  Russia's' valiant  Czar! 

Gocl  knows,  THIS  land,  like  Muscovy, 

Was  rank  with  Slavery's  scurf; 
God  knows,  it  made  the  ruler  oft 

More  leprous  than  the  serf: 
And  yet,  in  sight  of  Bunker  Hill, 

In  sight  of  Vernon's  turf, 
We  shrink  from  ALEXANDER'S  cry — 
"Emancipate  the  Serf!" 

With  all  the  wide  world  gazing — 

Wherever  Christians  are — 
We  are  cowering  still  at  Slavery's  feet— 
Rebuked  by  Russia's  Czar! 

NEW  YORK,  December,  1S61 . 


OF  all  my  FATHER'S  herds  and  flocks, 
I  love  the  Ox — the  large-eyed  Ox  ! 
I  think  no  Christian  man  would  wrong 
The  Ox — so  patient,  calm,  and  strong ! 

How  huge  his  strength !   and  yet,  with  flowers 
A  child  can  lead  this  Ox  of  ours ; 
And  yoke  his  ponderous  neck,  with  cords 
Made  only  of  the  gentlest  words. 

By  fruitful  Nile  the  Ox  was  Lord  ; 

By  Jordan's  stream  his  blood  was  poured ; 

In  every  age — with  every  clan — 

He  loves,  he  serves,  he  dies  for  MAN  ! 

And,  through  the  long,  long  years  of  God, 

Since  laboring  ADAM  delved  the  sod, 

I  hear  no  human  voice  that  mocks 

The  HUE  which  God  hath  given  His  Ox ! 

"While  burdening  toils  bow  down  his  back, 
Who  asks  if  he  be  WHITE  or  BLACK? 
And  when  his  generous  blood  is  shed, 
Who  shall  deny  its  common  RED  ? 


A    PLEA   FOE   THE    OX.  19 

"Ye  shall  not  muzzle" — God  hath  sworn — 
"The  Ox,  that  treadeth  out  the  corn!" 
I  think  no  Christian  law  ordains 
That  Ox  or  MAN  should  toil  in  chains. 

So,  haply,  for  an  Ox  I  pray, 
That  kneels  and  toils  for  us  this  day ; 
A  huge,  calm,  patient,  large-eyed  Ox, 
Black-skinned,  among  our  herds  and  flocks. 

So  long,  O  righteous  Lord !"  so  long 
Bowed  down,  and  yet  so  brave  and  strong — 
I  think  no  Christian,  just  and  true, 
Can  spurn  this  poor  Ox  for  his  HUE  ! 

I  know  not  why  he  shall  not  toil, 
Black-skinned,  upon  our  broad,  free  soil ; 
And  lift  aloft  his  dusky  frame, 
Unbranded  by  a  bondman's  name! 

And  struggling  still,  for  nobler  goal, 
With  wakening  will  and  soaring  soul, 
I  know  not  why  his  great  free  strength 
May  not  be  our  best  wealth  at  length  : 

That  strength  which,  in  the  limbs  of  SLAVES— 

Like  Egypt's — only  piles  up  graves ! 

But  in  the  hands  of  FREEMEN  now 

May  build  up  States,  by  axe  and  plough ! — 


20  UTTERANCES. 

And  rear  up  souls,  as  purely  white 
As  angels,  clothed  with  heavenly  light ; 
And  yield  forth  life-blood,   richly  red 
As  patriot  hearts  have  ever  shed. 

God  help  us  !    we  are  veiled   within — 
Or  white  or  black — with  shrouds  of  skin ; 
And,   at  the  last,   we  all  shall  crave 
Small  difference  in  the  breadth  of  grave ! 

But — when  the  grass  grows,  green  and  calm. 
And  smells  above  our  dust,   like  balm — 
I  think  our  rest  will  sweeter  be, 
If  over  us  the  Ox  be — FREE! 

February ,  1862. 


MOUTH  not  to  mo  your  Union  rant, 
JSTor  gloze  mine  ears  with  loyal  cant ! 
"Who  stands  this  day  in  FREEDOM'S  van, 
He  only  is  my  UNION  MAN  ! 
Who  tramples  Slavery's  Gesler  hat, 
He  is  my  LOYAL  DEMOCRAT. 

With  whips,  engirt  by  chains,  too  long 
We  strove  to  make  our  fasces  stron"- ; 

O    ' 

When  rebel  hands  those  fasces  rend, 
Must  we  with  whips  and  chains  still  mend  ? 
If  "  Democrats"  can  stoop  to  THAT, 
God  help  me !  I'M  no  Democrat ! 

Thank  Heaven  !  the  lines  are  drawn,  this  hour, 
'Twixt  Manly  Right  and  Despot  Power; 
Who  scowls  in  Freedom's  pathway  now, 
Bears  "  TYRANT"  stamped  upon  his  brow ; 
Who  skulks  aloof,  or  shirks  his  part, 
Hath  "SLAVE"  imprinted  in  his  heart! 

In  vain  of  "  equal  rights"  ye  prate 
Who  fawn  like  dogs  at  Slavery's  gate : 
Beyond  the  slave  each  slave-whip  smites, 
And  codes  for  blacks  are  laws  for  whites ; 
The  chains  that  negro  limbs  encoil 
Reach  and  enslave  each  child  of  toil. 


2 


2  2  UTTERANCES. 

O  Northern  Men !  when  will  ye  learn 
"Pis  LABOR  that  these  tyrants  spurn ! 
'Tis  not  the  blood  or  skin  they  brand, 
But  every  Poor  Man's  toil-worn  hand  ! 
And  ye  who  serve  them — knowing  this — 
Deserve  the  slave-lash  that  ye  kiss  ! 

While  Northern  blood  remembrance  craves 
From  thrice  ten  thousand  Southern  graves, 
Shall  free-born  hearts,  beneath  the  turf, 
Lie  always  crushed  by  tramp  of  serf — 
And  pilgrims,  at  those  shrines,  some  day, 
By  Slavery's  hounds  be  driven  away  ? 

The  green  grass  in  the  churchyard  waves, 
And  good  corn  grows  o'er  battle  graves; 
But,  O!  from  crimson  seeds  now  sown, 
What  crops — what  harvest-^shall  be  grown  I 
On  SHILOH'S  plain — on  ROANOKE'S  sod — 
What  fruits  shall  spring  from  blood,  O  God! 

Spring-time  is  here !     The  Past  now  sleeps— 

The  Present  sows — the  Future  reaps ! 

Who  plants  good  seed  in  Freedom's  span, 

He  only  is  my  UNION  MAN  ! 

Who  treads  the  weeds  of  Slavery  flat, 

He  is  my  LOYAL  DEMOCRAT  ! 

March,  1862. 


at  $jorfc. 


,,£>te  2ftiil)len  ©otteS  moiMen  febr  fetn." 


THOSE  Mills  of  God !    those  tireless  mills ! 
I  hear  their  ceaseless  throbs  and  thrills: 
I  see  their  dreadful  stones  go  round, 
And  all  the  realms  beneath  them  ground; 
And  lives  of  men,  and  souls  of  States, 
Flung  out,  like  chaff,  beyond  their  gates. 

And  we,  O  God!   with  impious  will, 
Have  made  these  NEGROES  turn  Thy  Mill ! 
Their  human  limbs  with  chains  we  bound, 
And  bade  them  whirl  Thy  mill-stones  round  : 
With  branded  brow  and  fettered  wrist, 
We  bade  them  grind  this  Nation's  grist ! 

And  so,  like  Samson — blind  and  bound — 
Our  Nation's  grist  this  Negro  ground; 
And  all  the  strength  of  Freedom's  toil, 
And  all  the  fruits  of  Freedom's  soil, 
And  all  her  hopes,  and  all  her  trust, 
From  Slavery's  gates  were  flung,  like  dust. 

With  servile  souls  this  Mill  we  fed, 

That  ground  the  grain  for  Slavery's  bread : 


24  UTTERANCES. 

With  cringing  men,  and  grovelling  deed?, 
We  dwarfed  our  land  to  Slavery's  needs ; 
Till  all  the  scornful  nations  hissed, 
To  see  us  ground  with  Slavery's  grist. 

The  Mill  grinds  on!     From  Slavery's  plain, 
We  reap  great  crops  of  blood-red  grain ; 
And  still  the  Negro's  strength  we  urge. 
With  Slavery's  gyve  and  Slavery's  scourge  ; 
And  still  we  crave — on  Freedom's  sod — 
That  Slaves  shall  turn  the  Mills  of  God ! 

The  Mill  grinds  on !     God  lets  it  grind ! 
We  sow  the  seed — the  sheaves  we  bind : 
The  mill-stones  whirl  as  WE  ordain ; 
Our  CHILDREN'S  BREAD  shall  test  the  GRAIN  ! 
While  Samson  still  in  chains  we  bind, 
The  Mill  grinds  on !     God  LETS  it  grind  ! 

June  12,  1862. 


ON  Croton's  plains,  where  Grecian  youths 
In  silence  learned  immortal   truths, 
And  wise  PYTHAGOKAS  taught  the  schools 
That  Freedom  reigns  where  Justice  rules : 

On  Croton's  plains,  in  days  of  old, 
Stout  MILO  roved — a  wrestler  bold ; 
"Whose  brawny  arm,  as  legends  tell, 
With  one  good  blow  an  ox  could  fell. 

And  when  this  MILO  dined,  we  read, 
An  ox  might  scarce  his  hunger  feed; 
So  strong  was  he,  so  wide"  of  maw, 
His  like,  I  think,  the  world  ne'er  saw. 

In  stalwart  pride  he  strode  the  plains, 
A  tyrant  grim  o'er  kine  and  swains; 
And  swung,  beneath  Crotona's  oaks, 
A  woodman's  axe,  with  giant  strokes ; 

And,  day  by  day,  his  wedges  drove, 
Until  the  goodliest  oak  he  clove — 
A  lofty  tree,  whose  branches  spann'd 
The  broad,  fair  fields  with  foliage  grand. 


2  6  UTTERANCES. 

With  foliage  green,  like  sheltering  wings, 
O'er  flowers,  and  fruits,  and  breathing  things  ; 
O'er  swarming  bees,  and  nestling  birds, 
And  laboring  men,  with  flocks  and  herds. 

The  stars  were  clustered  round  its  crest, 
And  sunbeams  striped  its  blooming  breast ; 
And  under  it— as  well  might  be — 
Pythagoras  taught  how  souls  were  free! 

But  MILO,  mustering  strength  perverse, 
His  wedges  drove,  with  scowl  and  curse, 
Till,  rending  through  the  oak-tree's  side, 
They  clove  its  trunk  with  fissures  wide. 

And,  yielding  round  those  wedges  black, 
The  huge  tree  quaked,  with  thunderous  crack, 
Until,  beneath  their  widening  strain, 
Its  heart  of  oak  seemed  riven  in  twain. 

Then  MILO,  in  his  madness,  spoke: 
"I  think  my  strength  can  tear  this  oak! 
These  wedges  I  no  more  need  drive — 
My  HANDS  alone  the  trunk  shall  rive !" 

With  giant  gripe,  the  oak  to  rend, 
He  bowed  himself,  as  whirlwinds  bend  ; 
With  furious  tug,  and  desperate  strain, 
To  rive  that  goodly  oak  in  twain. 


MILO    AND    THE    OAK.  27 

Till,  one  by  one,  with  loosening  clang, 
Those  iron  wedges  outward  sprang; 
And,  narrowing  its  elastic  strands, 
The  touo-h  oak  closed  on  MILO'S  hands. 

O 

It  crushed  him  in  its  fierce  rebound; 

It  shook  each  black  wedge  .to  the  ground  ; 

It  lifted  up  its  crest  of  stars, 

And  bade  the  sunbeams  gild  its  scars! 

I  know  not  if  Pythagoras  spoke 
To  freeborn  souls  of  MILO'S  oak; 
But  this  I  know — that  if  there  towers 
Such  oak-tree  in  this  land  of  ours — 

And  if  some  impious  hand  should  strain 
To  rend  that  goodly  oak  in  twain — 
Methinks  I'd  cry  aloud,  this  day, 
"In  God's  name,  strike  the  WEDGE  away!" 

The  wedge,  that  rent  the  strands  apart, 
The  wedge,  that  fein  would  cleave  the  heart ; 
Strike  out  this  wedge!  and  God  will  close 
The  UNION'S  oak  on  UNION'S  foes! 

Av0u.it,  1862. 


tatus  0f 


"There  is  n  niche  in  the  Temple  of  1'amo,  a  niche  near  to  WASHINGTON,  -which 
should  be  occupied  by  the  statue  of  him  who  shall  save  his  country.  Mr.  LINCOLN  has 
a  mighty  destiny.  It  is  for  him  to  be  but  a  President  of  the  people  of  the  United 
States,  and  there  will  his  statue  be." — JOIIN  •!.  CKITTEXDEN. 


WELL  hast  them  said — John  Crittenden  ! 
Albeit  the  prophet's  loftier  ken 

Be  still  denied  to  thee — 
"  If  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  dare  to  stand, 
The  People's  Chief — and  sav«  this  land — 
"Where  WASHINGTON  towers,  calmly  grand, 

There  will  his  statue  be !" 

I  hail  thy  words,  O  Crittenden  ! 

And  if  thy  faith  goes  with  them,  then 

That  faith  goes  far  with  me  : 
But  while  THY  Lincoln's  niche  awaits 
,    The  quarry  ings  of  our  "  Border  States," 
MY  Lincoln  guards  the  UNION'S  gates, 

And  there  his  niche  shall  be  ! 

Beneath  that  niche — John  Crittenden  ! 
His  name  was  graven  by  History's  pen, 

When  Freedom's  sunlit  sea, 
Upswelling  from  Potomac's  wave, 
Bore  back  the  slave-mart  and  the  slave : 
And  there — where  life  to  souls  lie  gave— 

There  shall  his  statue  be ! 


THE   STATUE   OF   LINCOLN.  29 

And  far  away,  O  Crittenden  ! 
"Where  dark  Liberia's  citizen 

Thanks  God  that  he  is  free : 
And  where  the  Haytien  smites  his  foes 
With  doctrines  sharper  than  Monroe's, 
There  LINCOLN'S  name  the  patriot  knows — 

There  will  his  statue  be ! 

Still  moves  the  world,  O  Crittenden  ! 
Though  trembling  Galileo  again 

Recant,  on  servile  knee ; 
And  FREEDOM  still,  with  lifted  head. 
Moves  grandly  o'er  her  martyred  dead — 
And,  blasted,  underneath  her  tread, 

Our  Slavery  yet  shall  be ! 

In  vain,  in  vain,  John  Crittenden  ! 
Thy  Border  States  and  Border  Men 

Like  Xerxes,  mock  the  sea : 
Above  their  whips  and  chains  it  rolls, 
In  billowy  tides  of  loyal  souls — 
And  where,  at  FREEDOM'S  feet,  it  shoals, 

God  grant  that  LINCOLN  be  ! 

O  silver-tongued  John  Crittenden  ! 
Sweet  are  thy  words  to  thoughtful  men, 
Though  hollow  sounds  from  thee  : 


30  UTTERANCES. 

Where  loyal  arm  and  loyal  prayer 
The  standard  of  this  land  would  bear, 
Let  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  mount — and  there, 
There  will  his  statue  be  ! 

When  LINCOLN'S  hand,  O  Crittenden  ! 
Shall  dip  within  his  HEART  the  pen 

That  writes  this  nation  FREE — 
Then,  towering  where  the  angels  climb, 
His  starry  soul  shall  stand,  sublime, 
And,  throned  upon  all  Future  Time, 

There  shall  his  STATUE  be  ! 

NEW  YORK,  August,  1862. 


THE  Crescent  inoon  rides  high  to-night; 
The  Crescent  city  sleeps  in  light ; 
The  Crescent  river  flashes  bright, 
Outdrawn  like  circling  scyinitar ; 
But,  gleaming  through  the  heavens  afar, 
I  only  see  the  NORTHERN  STAR  ! 

O  loyal  star  !  whose  steadfast  rays 
O'erlight  this  wild  war's  angry  maze — 
To  thee  I  lift  my  trustful  gaze : 
O'er  crescent  moons  of  fitful  sheen, 
And  meteor  stars  that  flit  between, 
Thou  rulest  our  land  with  beam  serene. 

O  Northern  Star  !  that  sweetly  glows 
Above  MY  COUNTRY'S  breast  of  snows, 
Where  milk  of  heroes  richly  flows  ; 
While  round  about  her  matron  loins, 
Where  patriot  mould  its  likeness  coins, 

f 

The  zone  of  Freedom  closely  joins. 

In  starry  folds  of  midnight  skies, 
And  crimson  rifts  of  sunset  dyes, 
She  walks  before  my  yearning  eyes ; 
O'er  breezy  breaks  of  Northern  sod, 
She  walks  the  hills  that  Freedom  trod — 
Her  hand  within  the  Hand  of  God ! 


32  UTTERANCES. 

But  here,  O  Heaven !  beneath  thy  smiles, 
The  Southland's  wanton  weaves  her  wiles — 
The  Harlot's  couch  our  land  defiles  : 
"With  zoneless  waist  and  bosom  bare, 
With  bacchant  arms  and  fluttering  hair, 
She  woos  the  world  her  shame  to  share. 

For  what  hath  all  this  Southland  been, 

But  one  white  sepulchre  of  sin  ! — 

So  fair  without — so  foul  within  ! 

Where  Lust  and  Greed  no  law  controlled — 

Where  manhood's  soul  was  weighed  with  gold, 

And  woman's  shame  was  gauged  and  sold  ! 

This  Temptress  of  our  Land,  whose  toils 
Wooed  Freedom's  self  within  their  coils, 
By  lure,  of  Slavery's  spicy  spoil*  : 
Who  kissed  the  North  with  wanton  mouth, 
And  parched  our  Northern  souls  with  drouth 
For  love-draughts  of  the  syren  South  ! 

And  still,  O  Heaven  !  her  coil  she  spins, 
To  tempt  the  Northland  with  her  sins — 
And  still  she  woos,  O  God  ! — and  wins ! 
In  lap  of  flowers,  with  helmet  doffed, 
Our  Northern  Samson  sinks,  full  oft, 
Beneath  this  Harlot's  dalliance  soft. 


SOUTHLAND.  33 

Wake,  Northland  !  wake  !  there  is  no  room 
Between  thy  life  and  Slavery's  doom ! — 
Her  kiss  thy  death — her  couch  thy  tomb  ! 
Fling  off  those  arms — that  yielding  zone  ; 
And  learn — O  learn !  that  STEEL  alone 
Must  find  her  heart — or  cleave  thine  own  ! 

Wake,  Northland !  wake !  thy  flag  advance  ! 
Ere  Slavery's  spells  thy  soul  entrance, 
And  blunt  the  steel  of  Freedom's  lance. 
Break,  break,  O  WAK  !  this  swoon  of  ours  ! 
Mow  down  with  fire  these  wanton  bowers  : 
Make  ashes  of  their  opiate  flowers ! 

IN  CAMP,  LAFOURCDE,  LA.,  March,  1SC3. 


t     fftts*  0f 


FROM  mossy  woods  and  cypress  bolls, 

The  swimming  snakes  have  sought  their  holes  ; 

On  heavy  wing  the  night-owl  flits, 

With  drooping  head  the  vulture  sits, 

And  down  the  bayou's  sultry  tide 

I  hear  the  stealthy  cayman  glide. 

I  weary  of  these  orange-blooms, 

And  tuneless  birds  with  gorgeous  plumes, 

And  white  magnolia's  sweet  attaint, 

Whereof  the  honeyed  air  grows  faint ; 

I  weary  of  this  golden  cane, 

This  silvery  cotton — and  this  CHAIN  ! 

The  iron  chain — the  rusted  chain, 
Tli at  manacles  each  fruitful  plain ; 
That  binds  the  woodland  and  the  sward — 
That  binds  the  laborer  and  the  lord  ! — 
It  wearies  soul — it  wearies  strength  : 
I  think  it  wearies  Heaven,  at  length  ! 

Dear  Heaven!  this  green  and  fertile  mead — 
These  fields,  that  swell  with  pregnant  seed ; 
These  orchards  ripe  and  gardens  rare, 
And  sunlit  skies  and  fragrant  air  ; 


THE   HOUSE    OF   BONDAGE.  35 

This  broad  domain  that  Freedom  craves — 
"Why  must  it  be  the  HOUSE  OF  SLAVES  ? 

The  red  oaks  lift  their  vernal  sheen — 

The  cypress  waves  in  lustrous  green  ; 

But  underneath  lies  withering  bark, 

"Where  creeps  the  swamp-moss,  gray  and  stark, 

And  chokes  the  sweet  life  where  it  hangs — 

Fit  type  of  Slavery's  deathful  fangs  ! 

I  marvel  oft,  if  shames  distil 
From  lands  that  nurse  no  rippling  rill ; 
If  wrongs  must  still  oppress  these  leas, 
Because  they  feel  no  upland  breeze ; 
If  slaves  must  breed  in  swamp  and  fen, 
"While  hill-tops  suckle  freeborn  men ! 

No,  FREEDOM!  no! — thy  generous  veins 
Can  flood  with  life  these  sluggish  plains ; 
Thy  breath,  that  lifts  our  flags  to  God, 
Shall  quicken  all  this  servile  sod  : 
All  dead  things  shall  thy  voice  obey, 
And  rise,  like  LAZARUS,  from  decay  ! 

From  Texas  sand  to  Hampshire  ?now, 
Five  hundred  thousand  bayonets  glow  ! 
I  cannot  think  these  Northern  knives 
Can  e'er  be  forged  to  Southern  gyves ; 
Or  they  that  wield  them — freeborn  men — 
Will  build  the  House  of  Slaves  asrain  I 


36  UTTERANCES. 

I  draw  my  sword,  and  poise  the  blade- 
I  feel  no  manly  strength  decayed  : 
I  swing  it  through  yon  palmy  sedge — 
It  smites — it  bites — with  warlike  edge 
It  cuts  as  well — this  freedom-brand — 
In  Southern  as  in  Northern  land  ! 

I  kiss  my  sword,  and  gripe  the  hilt — 
I  think  of  blood  for  Union  spilt : 
Beneath  my  flag  of  stars  I  stand — 
I  lift  this  steel  blade  in  my  hand, 
And  swear  that  ALL  this  land  is  free  !— 
O  GOD  !  break  not  mine  oath  for  me  ! 

I.v  CAMP,  BAYOJJ  BLACK,  La.,  April,  1863. 


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